


Blood

by thewaynecondition



Category: Batman Begins (2005), The Dark Knight (2008), The Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaynecondition/pseuds/thewaynecondition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a society where underground boxing quietly forms the backbone of Gotham's economy, the boxers decide to take back their earnings and topple the system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



There's blood on the floor, a layer so thick it's almost impossible for either of the fighters to see the money caked under it, plastered to the concrete by snot and teeth knocked loose by perfectly timed punches. All of it goes to the winner, the person who makes it out...relatively unharmed. It's a good thing Barsad isn't close enough to count it, that would mean he was losing, that he was face down in the grime and waiting to have some unimportant appendage sliced off by Falcone's men for costing them ten grand.  
Ten thousand dollars, all caked in mud and desperation. It's chump change. Barsad makes more for spitting on opponents than that. But Daggett wants his new pup broken in and there isn't anyone better to do that than Barsad.

  
Stryver is a scrappy middle weight who has proven, despite initial skittishness, that he can hold his own, but he's no match for Falcone's best. Barsad is yet to lose a fight in his division and he isn't about to start today. His fist connecting with the bony ridge of Stryver's cheekbone makes a sick snapping sound and Stryver goes down again, a perfect view of money and blood. None of it his and all of it his all at once.

  
"Niyazov. Your verdict?"

  
One word. All the refs ask for is a single word each time and with it Barsad will either start this pup's career or end his short and miserable life.  
Barsad steps back from his opponent on the ground and cracks his knuckles leaning against the alley wall to catch his breath and wipe the blood from his split lip. Should the man on the ground be allowed to live?

  
Surviving in Gotham is a heavy burden to bear alone. Being a fighter is a guaranteed meal, guaranteed clothes, and guaranteed shelter even if that shelter happened to be the back room of Falcone's shit hole club in the Narrows shared by three other fighters. Making it alone in Gotham, being thrown out on the street without cover, and without family is a death sentence in itself. Barsad has never really cared much. He fights, he wins, he survives. So, pound or leash? Discard or keep.

  
"Pound," he says, sentencing Stryver forever. "Pick up my money."

  
One of Falcone's men obeys him while the other wraps his hands in gauze and ice. Barsad's real work would begin in the morning scouting for a replacement for a loser, a dead loser who'd exited the world the way most fighters do, on the end of their owner's gun. Four in the back room instead of five was far less crowded but it meant less money and that was a crime in itself.

  
There were all manner of places he could look, boy's homes, school yards, back alleys like this one, prisons. The last is his least favorite. The men there are usually more interested in killing their opponent than beating him for money and while this was a messy business it was a business nonetheless. That was never more evident than when the last blood soggy dollar had been scraped off of the pavement and folded into a silver briefcase with Falcone's initials engraved on the side. Barsad knows as he gets in the car that he'll never see that money again. But he's earned his place one more time.

  
Selina greets him at the back door of the club with a smirk and a short wave. The club is open and it will be until day breaks over the creatures inside like a tungsten on roaches sending them scattering back to their respectable homes where they can pretend the fights don't happen and the money doesn't pad their wallets. Selina, of course, is a show stopper. Lovely, and almost completely out of place against the dingy back drop of the club where pigeon shit drips off of a dumpster to the left of her bruised fighting hand on the door, a hand usually clad in diamonds the same size and shape as pigeon shit. She smiles like she knows every secret worth selling in town. And the truth is, she probably does.

  
Barsad made the mistake of asking whether or not she was a ring girl when they first met and lost a molar to her right hook. He knows better now.

  
Selina has her own chain link of bruises running across her chest. Upon closer inspection, it seems that her opponent is clearly a biter and perhaps they were not so much fighting as having their way with each other.

  
"Another visit from Wayne?"

  
"You jealous?"

  
"Of you and Wayne?"

  
"That I got some this week before you did."

  
"...It's only Tuesday."

  
She smiles knowingly, "And your fight is Thursday."

  
"That's right."

  
Barsad brushes past her letting the warmth of the inside permeate into his skin and chase away the cold of Gotham winter and a fading fight. She shut the door behind them and sauntered after him down the narrow hall.

  
"Everybody knows."

  
"I am waiting for your point."

  
Barsad leans against the backroom door already hearing the ruckus of two other human bodies attempting to coexist inside, but Selina is faster, elbowing him out of the way.  
"Look, I could care less who you fuck. But there are people here who'd like to see you on the street, not to mention if someone tells Falcone that you're screwing the enemy he'll skin you."

  
"Isn't this a hypocritical line of questioning?"

  
"I'm not Falcone's prized dog."

  
Barsad nods sharply, blue eyes listing toward the door behind her. He could leave, walk out and never come back, never be anybody's dog again. So easy.... "Exactly," he says instead,"The prospect of him killing me is laughable. They're good. You are good. But none of you bring in the amount of money that I do."

  
"You're so sure, huh?" Her lips curl up at the corner. She is far too much of a lady to sneer but it is certainly not a smile.

  
"Aye," he says pushing past her once more, "I'm sure."

  
"Sure about what?"

  
Kojo. Team heavyweight and best right hook south of the river. Barsad claps him on the back and the sound does a lap around the room, leaving Barsad's hand with a sharp sting.

  
"That you are the nosiest boxer that ever lived."

  
Kojo just laughs, shoving the smaller man toward his side of the room with one hand, Selina scooting out of the way as Barsad nearly falls over.

  
Crane, looking up from a book in the corner raises an eyebrow before his voice. "Still referring to us as boxers?"

  
"It is kinder."

  
"I suppose someone has to be nice to us." He says turning the page with a sharp flick of his wrist. Barsad thinks that for a man who's had both wrists broken in a fight before, Crane does it quite well.

  
Selina tips his book upward as she passes, inspecting the title curiously. "Gonna learn Mui Tai through osmosis, Sweetheart?"

  
"Perhaps." Crane has the decency not to look completely exasperated as he looks over his glasses at her, flattening the book back to his lap and--flick--turning the page.


	2. Chapter 2

"It can't be done."

Gotham moves like the inner workings of a clock. Each little cog connects to the next one and together they make time move forward. For Gotham and every other metropolitan city, time is money. If one piece fails than the entire system goes to shit. The fighters are a piece, a bigger piece than most people care to think about and a bigger piece than most of the fighters know when they're dragged in off of the streets dirt poor and starving and offered a spot.

Years ago, there was the dirty money used to keep the Gotham theatre open for a few more nights, just a few more nights to let their last show finish its run. An eight year old boy in the fifth row was too afraid to stay and drug his wealthy parents out the back doors. Some thug who probably lost his last fight and his home, and who probably hadn't eaten in days saw a prime opportunity and took it, leaving that eight year old boy an orphan.

When the authorities found out that his old butler was the head referee for most of the underground fights he lost his fortune, so if that rich boy wanted to eat he had better learn to fight too.

Those bloody pearls weren't going to save him.

Bruce's story is easy to remember and that is the one most often told to the new fighters when they ask how someone can get into a life of beating others to pulp and mush. But there are other stories and there are universal truths.

If a man in foreclosure suddenly has the money to pay his mortgage outright, chances are he left his name and his bet with an owner like Falcone, Al Ghul, or Daggett and won. If that same man loses then the team owner keeps the house and the bank doesn't bat an eyelash.

If the police want their narc to talk, they pay him in fight money. If they want robbers caught, they pick up fight money and mark the bills. Lottery pay outs? Fight money.

 Fighter earnings.

 None of which actually ever see a fighter's hands.

 

                                                                        *

 

Barsad spits. The warmth of his saliva melts a small hole into some of the snow that fell over the city as each of them slept the night before. He certainly found the recruit he was looking for that morning, fought the kid before he could finish stealing a pair of tires, then sent his bruised ass home to Falcone for an Orientation of sorts. Barsad’s spit tinges the snow red, blood in his mouth from a cut that probably won’t ever heal, a left jab he should have ducked.

The other fighters in attendance to this little back alley meeting wait for more from him in the way of response since it was his idea that Bruce so eloquently shot down.

"It can't be done." Bruce repeats himself just in case. It is highly likely that his old friend has gone mad. With an idea like this one...Well, they've all taken one too many knocks to the head. “Not unless you’re prepared to do what is necessary.”

"And why not?" Barsad asks finally. "Why shouldn't we rob them blind when it is our money to begin with?"

Shiva runs her hand down a soggy flyer taped to the alleyway wall. She can't be bothered to face them in these meetings. It gives her a level of deniability. "To start? Because it's idiotic."

"Because we all know what you're really talking about," Dent says from where he is leaning against the dumpster. Barsad cannot think of a better place for him--Harvey Two Face. The only improvement would be perhaps to have him dead and inside the dumpster rather than leaning against it. "You're talking about destroying an entire city, doubling an established order."

"I don't give a fuck about the order. He's right."

"Blake," Barsad calls over his shoulder when the words are launched forward in his favor, " good of you to join us."

"Yeah, you're welcome."

Dent straightens, "My point is: they aren't going to just let you take the money. If you think robbing a bank is hard, multiply that by a million. We're the Federal Reserves. So, you better have more than words if you're considering getting yourselves killed over it."

"I would have thought a former politician would be a better tactician," Selina says, a tease in her voice and a challenge on her tongue.

"Oh no, you aren't dragging me into this."

"Then why are you here?"

Harvey settles back into his position, Shiva and Blake look up. Selina's unease is shown more quietly in the way she detangles from Bruce, crossing her arms protectively across her chest in a false show if disregard while Bruce himself remains as he always is.

The voice belongs to Talia, Bane walking easily behind her. Both of them are on Bruce's team but their late arrival means one thing: they discussed exactly how they wanted this meeting to go and any one who does not fall in line will simply have to leave under their own power or by force. That's just fine with Barsad. They do not tend to side against him.

"If you think all that has been said is impossible then why have you shown up at all?" She asked approaching Harvey. “We can make decisions without all of your posturing. You fancy yourself a lawyer still but all the world will ever see is a street rat.  I do not see Crane here. Perhaps it would be better for you to find a book and spend the nights inside with him.”

“No inviting the cretins to my team,” Barsad scoffs playfully at her. He cut his eyes at Bane momentarily as both invitation and challenge—for later—before joining John where he’s curled up on the stairs of a fire escape nearby, Bane merely tilting his head in acknowledgment.

Harvey clears his throat and they can almost see him gather together his pride, “Are we supposed to all fall in line just because you say so?” He takes a step closer to Talia who holds her ground.

Bane does not move because she is more than capable of defending herself, they all know that, but when he speaks it is clear that either Harvey should stand down or risk losing the other half of his face in a fire as well. Barsad can imagine him holding Harvey down and igniting a simple lighter under his cheek until the skin peeled away little by little, curling back like fried poultry skins on a burner.

“No,” Bane says squaring his massive shoulders, “you will leave. And this time, do not think to betray your team members or share any word that has been spoken here. We would not want a repeat of the events with Ms. Dawes. Now would we?”

That ends that.  Another story for another time.

Harvey storms out of the alleyway and John knows that he should follow him to keep Daggett from wondering where he is but…not just yet. He saw the look Barsad tossed Bane, he saw the answer. And fuck him if it sounds bad but beating the shit out of people nightly without getting any wasn’t exactly prime living. He could wait. He _would_ wait. He’d fuck his boyfriends and then he’d go.

Shiva finally stops fiddling with her poster and nods at Bruce (whose flinch at the mention of Rachel will go unspoken of if the rest of them want to end the night without a broken jaw), then Talia and Bane. “I’ll keep Ra’s busy,” she says disappearing without another word.

There is a lull then. Of all of the bodies in the alleyway: Selina, Bruce, John, Barsad, Bane, Talia, and Kojo keeping watch on the corner, none of them disagree on what must be done. They share glances with one another then disperse into the usual groups. Talia with Bruce and Selina for a few hours and Bane with Barsad and John. In the morning they will be enemies again, on separate teams, fighting one another to make their respective team owners the richest most corrupt men in the city. But for now, they are not fighters and they have no desire to be.

As Bane comes over to them on the stairs, Barsad lets his legs fall open and Bane’s big body to slot in between. He slides his hands under the sheepskin coat and wraps long fingers around Bane’s waist. “Well,” he says, “you took your time getting here.”

“I forgot that patience is not your forte.”

“He’s not the only one that got tired of waiting,” Blake chimes in as if he was not late to the meeting himself. Blake busies himself with moving Barsad’s hands so that he can slip between the two of them. He settles himself in Barsad’s lap, legs spread open on the outside of Barsad’s own and Bane can see an invitation when it’s placed before him so neatly. Lube is pulled from Barsad’s back pocket and they waste no time. They have no time to waste.

Barsad hands the tube to Bane and slips his hands over Blake’s crotch. He rubs the line of his cock through the material of his jeans, watching as his big brown eyes dilate and his breathing huffs out in ghostly patterns in the cold. As he hardens in Barsad’s hand, Blake makes the decision that being teased is the last thing he wants tonight and pops his jeans open. He shoves his pants down and lets Barsad raise his thighs up for Bane who is slicking up in front of them. That big hand wrapping wet around his heavy cock makes both Blake and Barsad lick their lips and it only takes a second more before Bane is leaning in, kissing one then the other with battle torn lips and pressing the blunt head of his cock into Blake.

“Fuck,” Blake groans, holding Bane’s shoulders, his thighs tensing in Barsad’s hands as he helps his hips down onto Bane’s shaft. They grunt when they finally seat together and Barsad can’t help the breathy laugh that leaves his throat as a puff of cloud.

Barsad bounces on the stair, taking Blake with him, bouncing him on Bane’s cock and earning a look of appreciation from those grey eyes, a groan from them both, “Come on, “he demands, “fuck our boy.”

Bane obliges. His thrusts rock them all downward roughly. The stairs complain loudly. It’s not as if they’re in an affluent neighborhood. There’s no telling how many times they’ve fucked on these stairs, how many times other people have attempted the same feat. Behind them Bruce fucks Talia against the wall, her hand disappearing into Selina’s open pants.

This is normal.

They’re fighters.

They’re filthy underground creatures according to the news, according to all of the people in ‘clean’ society who are unwilling to give them a chance or a decent way of living. So they behave as such.

Bane reaches down and sifts his hand into Barsad’s hair, roughly tugging the short hair back until he can see the lust in sky blues that is clearly reflected in his own and in Blake’s own brown ones.  The three of them move together, Blake held on to and not given much choice but so, so pleased. The boy is crushed between them and clenching greedily around Bane’s cock so ready to come after a week of stresses and another week of setting his knuckles against bone and blood to come. Bane fucks impossibly harder, working his own problems into Blake’s skin, setting the metal and Blake to screaming as Barsad adds his own efforts by stroking Blake’s flushed cock.

“Gonna come,” Blake gasps and Bane sheds his coat to avoid a mess made one too many times (sheepskin is nearly impossible to clean) and moments later Blake shudders, keeping his word. He makes a mess of Barsad’s hand and his own stomach before melting into Barsad beneath him. They take a few moments to breathe, come cleaned up with shirt hems and the absence of fucks. Blake let’s Bane pull out and pulls up his pants so that his legs wont freeze to death and more importantly, so that they can turn their attention on Barsad.

He is more than ready for that.

Barsad stands from the stairs only to force Bane into a seated position. His jeans are pressed down without ceremony and he slicks himself with even less formality before settling down on Bane’s cock.

Barsad fucks like he fights. His hands grip Bane’s shoulders almost painfully tight and he rides so hard that neither one of them remember to breathe until they’re coming together and cursing and clutching at one another. Bane’s hand prints on Barsad’s thighs matching the ones that will likely be on his arms in the morning. Blake leans in and kisses them both, all tongue and teeth and desperation.

They each have fights to win tomorrow or they lose their homes. They lose each other. They lose everything.

They clean up and say goodbye to John, sending him back to Daggett with a slight limp. Bruce and Talia meet with Bane and leave as well, headed to Ra’s with satisfied grins. Barsad waits until Selina is ready to go before they do the same, Kojo still waiting dutifully at the corner.

“Didn’t want to find someone warm before tomorrow?” Barsad asks.

He shrugs, “I never fuck before a fight. It’s a distraction.”

Selina snorts. “You’ll understand if we humbly disagree.”


End file.
